


Hark the Herald Angels Sing

by Xerxia



Series: Everlark Advent [4]
Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Neighbors, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-24
Updated: 2016-12-27
Packaged: 2018-09-11 17:17:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8999764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xerxia/pseuds/Xerxia
Summary: Part of my Everlark Advent collection, posted separately because it is part of a series of one-shots from this universe.





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

> Advent Day 9 and Day 23.

My new downstairs neighbour doesn’t slam cupboard doors or throw parties, doesn’t even stagger home from the bars in the early morning hours. He’s been pretty quiet, actually.

Until now.

The gorgeous tones of the Pentatonix singing _The Little Drummer Boy_ drift up through the antique ventilation system of the converted Victorian that houses my apartment, and three others.

I’d be tempted to praise his taste in music. Except it’s _November first_.

The first day of freaking November. I still have two-thirds of a bowl of mini Snickers bars inside my apartment door.

By the time I tromp down the stairs, outside and around to his entrance the music has changed to _Christmas in Hollis._ Just no.

I pound on his door a little harder than I intended. It flies open, and I completely forget what I was here for.

On the other side stands my new neighbour, wearing a slightly panicked look. I’ve seen him before, in passing. Moving in, gathering the mail, juggling grocery bags, I mean, I’ve seen him around. And I knew he was cute, blond curls, usually sticking out from under a baseball cap, friendly smile aimed at everyone.

But the man standing before me isn’t cute. He’s hot. Both metaphorically and - as evidenced by his sweaty, shirtless state - literally. I watch a drop of sweat trace its way down his neck to pool in the masculine divot of his collarbone, then overflow to lap at his defined pectorals.

How I’d like to chase that droplet with my tongue.

“Katniss?” he says softly. My eyes snap up from their admiration of his gorgeously cut abdominals to meet his eyes, startlingly blue up close and glinting with amusement.

“You know my name?” It just falls out, and once the words are there, shimmering between us, I can’t take them back.

He blushes, actually blushes. I watch the red tint climb his throat, kiss his sharp jaw before caressing cheeks that are just round enough to prevent his face from being too hard, too angular. “Uh, yeah,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck and looking adorably sheepish. “I uh. I heard Haymitch talking about you.” Of course he did, my uncle Haymitch, who owns the building, is a drunken big mouth.

“Oh,” I say, dumbly.

He shakes his head, as if dissipating a fog. He holds out his hand. “I’m Peeta.” _Peeta Mellark_. I know his name, know that he opened the new bakery on the corner of Victor’s and Main a couple of months ago. It’s not like I’m a stalker, I’ve just noticed things.

The press of his hand to mine sends a spark up my arm. He raises an eyebrow at me. I’m completely lost.

Then Mariah Carey starts wailing in the background.

I snatch my hand away like it’s on fire, and scowl. “What the hell is that?”

He looks mildly affronted. “What is what?”

“The music,” I spit. It’s hard to even call it music. It’s like auditory torture.

“You don’t like Mariah Carey?” I roll my eyes. “You don’t like _Christmas music_?” He sounds horrified.

“I like Christmas music at Christmas time. Not now! It’s November first for God’s sake, it’s seventy-five degrees outside. Christmas is two months away!”

“Fifty-four days.” He smirks. “So much to do, so little time.”

“Peeta,” I say, and his name feels so erotic in my mouth that I almost lose my train of thought again. “If I have to listen to fifty-four days of continuous Christmas music I’m going to snap.” He looks far too amused. “Listen, I have a recursive bow and I know how to use it!”

He laughs, the bastard. “Haymitch mentioned,” he says, and I believe him. It’s the second thing Haymitch tells anyone new. The first is that I have all the charm of a dead slug. Haymitch is not great for my social life.

I huff, ready to storm back to my own apartment, but he grabs my arm. “Wait,” he says, all of his amusement gone. “I, uh. I don’t want to be responsible for you going all Robin Hood on someone. How about I make you a deal?”

I step back just slightly, and his face falls. “What’s the deal, Mellark?” I ask, and his lips quirk up.

“You know my name too,” he grins. Ugh. Busted. I make a little hurry up gesture with my hand. Mariah has blessedly stopped screaming but her replacement isn’t much better. “Okay,” he says. “I’ll wear headphones to listen to Mariah and the gang until December first.”

“Okay,” I hedge. I can deal with Christmas music in December. I might even _like_ Christmas music in December, but I’m not about to confess that to Buddy the Elf here just yet. “And?”

“And,” he bites his lip, looking adorably - and inexplicably - nervous. “You have to go out for coffee with me.”

“Like a date?” My eyes must be like pie plates. He shrugs.

“Yeah, if, uh. If you’re interested?” I stare at him like he has four heads. I stomp down here, yell at him, threaten him with grievous bodily harm, and he’s asking me out? In the silence, he visibly deflates, looking at his feet and rubbing the back of his neck. “Or, yeah, that’s okay, if you don’t -”

“Hot chocolate,” I interject. He glances up, puzzled. “I like hot chocolate. And I know the best place to get it.” His answering smile is blinding, and I can’t stop my own lips from twitching in response.

“Really?” he says, that smile turning my insides into mush.

“Yeah. How’s tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow is perfect. I, uh. Wow. Yeah. Yes.”

“Good. Now go turn off that racket, and I’ll see you tomorrow.” I start to walk away, then turn back. “And Peeta?” He flashes me another blinding smile. “I’m glad to finally meet you.”

* * *

[Find all of the Everlark Advent stories here.](http://xerxia31.tumblr.com/post/153904332885/everlark-advent-2016)


	2. Chapter 2

“So spill it, why are you so giddy?” Prim’s balanced on a step ladder, and my every big-sister instinct tells me to kick the bottom of it. It’s not that big of a fall. She’d only bruise her pride. And maybe her ass. Instead, I take the more mature road and stick my tongue out at her. She just laughs. “Seriously, Kat. It’s a nice change from your usual screw the universe attitude.”

 

“I have plenty of screw the universe left, thank you very much.” I try to scowl, but I can’t. Because she’s right. I’m happy.

 

And it has everything to do with my new downstairs neighbour.

 

Prim wipes her hands on her jeans and climbs down, standing back to admire her work. Over the course of a couple of hours, she’s completely Christmafied my apartment. Garland stretches everywhere, wrapped in red ribbon, dripping with glass balls. The perfect Douglas fir we chose together holds a place of pride in the corner of my living room, too many tiny twinkle lights sparkle like jewels against the rich green boughs.

 

And Taylor Swift has been unceremoniously turfed from my playlist.  _ Haters gonna hate _ . Bing Crosby and David Bowie are crooning in harmony while Prim sways. Even my shrivelled-up Grinch heart has to admit that it’s pretty nice in here.

 

Prim wraps her arms around me. “Thank you, Little Duck,” I murmur, and she squeezes me tight. 

 

My sister adores Christmas. Years ago, we did this every year. As soon as the Thanksgiving leftovers had been cleared away we’d haul the decorations out of our parents attic and go to town. But when first my father, and then my mother passed away, well. I lost some of my Christmas spirit.

 

But this year it feels good to celebrate.

 

“Whoever he is,” Prim says, grinning as she shoves me away. “Tell him I say thank you.” And I snicker. She knows me too well. But I’m not quite ready to share Peeta with her. And not only because I’m not quite sure what there is to share.

 

Since I barged down to his apartment four weeks ago and yelled at him for his far-too-early Christmas carols, we’ve been getting to know each other. An afternoon drinking hot chocolate together led to a another at the art gallery. And then a pizza and netflix night that, sadly, only involved pizza and netflix. Nothing more.

 

_ Not yet _ , my traitorous heart adds.

 

I haven't seen Peeta in ten days. He spent Thanksgiving back in his hometown with his family. By the time he returned, I’d already left for a conference in Topeka. And my flight home landed mere hours after his departed for the coast, which is where he is now, meeting with potential bakery suppliers. Ships passing in the night...

 

We've spent these ten days exchanging increasingly flirty texts. 

 

I think I know where we’re heading. But I’m a little out of practice with the whole dating scene. I haven’t had sex since grad school and haven’t had anything approaching a serious relationship since, well. I’ve never really had a serious relationship. But Peeta makes me believe in the possibility.

 

And he’s coming home tonight.

 

“Yeah, yeah,” I grouse at Prim, but without any malice. “Now get out.”

 

In our most recent round of text messages, Peeta told me his plane was coming in late afternoon, and I offered to make him dinner. That’s part of why I let Prim go crazy with the Christmas regalia. I’m pretty shitty with words, preferring actions. Pretty decorations and a candlelit dinner? I think that’ll say what I want it to.

 

Now I only have to worry about his response. Because while I think I know where this is going, he hasn’t actually  _ said _ or  _ done _ anything to push us along in that direction himself. After the boldness of asking me out, in all of my screaming banshee glory, he’s been very tentative since.

 

But I’m done waiting. I’ll have my answer tonight. One way or another.

 

* * *

 

 

I’m kind of a crappy cook, but lamb stew is an old family favourite that’s hard to screw up. It bubbles happily on the stovetop while I wear grooves into the carpeting, pacing my small apartment like a caged tiger. Over the last few hours I’ve second and third and forty-fourth guessed myself.  _ This is a stupid idea. If he wanted you, he’d have said something already. _

 

I’m the worst kind of fraud, in heels and mascara, soft music filling my twinkle light-infested space. I’m even wearing a dress; a clingy, wrapped design in rich red that Prim says sets off my hair and makes my boobs look great.  _ Your mystery man won’t know what hit him _ , she’d laughed as she flounced out of my place, seeing straight through my denials. 

 

With every minute that passes I feel more idiotic. What am I even doing? Like decorating my house for Christmas or wearing a dress is going to convince Peeta I’m the woman for him.

 

I’ve already opened the bottle of wine I bought for us to share, and I might be on my second glass, trying to calm my nerves. My phone stays stubbornly silent, though google tells me his plane landed thirty-seven minutes ago. The last text I’d sent was to tell him just to come up when he was ready. There’s been radio silence since.

 

I move over to the window, kicking off my heels and setting my wineglass on the wide sill. The weather has turned sharply, and my breath crystallises on the icy pane as I watch the cars drive past, red taillights tracing streaks against the inky blackness of the night. I pull my hair out of the fancy twist I'd chosen to wear, and shake out the strands until they fall in a tangled mess around my face.  _ Mary Did You Know _ comes up on the Christmas Pandora station Prim programmed in before she left, the melancholy chords matching my mood.

 

There was once music in my house, long ago. Music I helped make. My father pulled me in with his remarkable voice, but I haven’t sung much since he died. But I begin to sing now at the window; my voice, at first rough and breaking on the high notes, warms up into something splendid. The lyrics come back easily, locked away in that part of my brain where all things that remind me of my father are stored, carefully wrapped, but dusty.

 

And in the music, in the Christmas tunes I dismissed a month ago as annoying, I find a calmness. A certainty. I can only be true to myself and hope Peeta likes the girl I am, feral and scowly though she may be.

 

A small smile is playing on my lips as the last notes fade away, and I turn away from the window. As I do, a flash of orange catches my eye.

 

Peeta.

 

He’s standing in the doorway to my apartment, wearing a navy blue peacoat with a soft orange scarf looped over the shoulders. Standing stock-still, eyes wide as saucers, mouth hanging just slightly open.

 

With his wind-kissed cheeks and his slightly too long hair curling around his ears, he’s a Christmas angel come to life. An incredibly delicious Christmas angel. As if ten days was long enough to have forgotten just how handsome he is. “You’re back,” is all I can press through lips suddenly numb.

 

He stares for another long minute, just long enough that every insecurity rears ugly in my head. Then finally he moves. Not slowly, like shaking off a fog, but in one jagged motion, as if he’s burst free of his frozen confines. In three large steps he crosses the room, and before I can even gasp, his lips are on mine.

 

His mouth is hot and sweet, stealing my breath and my senses with each stomach-swooping slide of his tongue. A moan erupts from deep in my chest, and I’m powerless to stop it. He responds by wrapping his arm more tightly around me, pulling me against the hard length of his body. I kiss him frantically, chaotically, a month’s worth of longing passing between our bruised lips.

 

Only when my lungs are burning do I pull back just far enough to suck a greedy drag of oxygen, flavoured with the sultry cinnamon-musk scent that clings to Peeta like a lover’s caress. “I had to do that,” he pants, his words fanning hotly over my lips. “At least once.”

 

“Better be more than once,” I breathe, then lean into him again. This kiss is slower, more controlled, a mutual exploration. Each preference discovered and delighted in. My hands curl in the rough wool of his coat and I’m seized with a desperate need to remove the thick barrier between us. He chuckles breathlessly as I work each button free, shoving the offending material from his shoulders. I take a half-step back to really look at him. It’s clear he’s come directly from the airport, he’s wearing a pale blue button down shirt with a dark grey tie. And with his eyes half-closed, lips plush and pink, he’s the sexiest thing I have ever seen. “I missed you,” I whisper. Then his arms are around me again, the heat of his body surrounding me

 

“You’re all I’ve thought about,” he confesses against the delicate skin of my throat, punctuating each word with a gentle nip, a press of perfect white teeth. “For months. God, Katniss, you are so incredibly gorgeous.”

 

I hum my approval against his ear and he shudders. “I’ve tried to be a gentleman,” he continues, the rough rasp of his voice making my nipples tighten. “I wanted to go slow. To ask you-” he breaks off in a sexy moan as I lick his jaw, burying my fingers in his soft curls to tilt his head just so. 

 

“Ask me what?” 

 

He groans. “Fuck, I have no idea. All I know is when I opened the door and heard you singing I couldn't think straight anymore. I am such a goner for you, Katniss.” 

 

I've never felt sexier or more powerful than right now, the way he’s looking at me, like I’m more radiant than the sun. I grab him by the belt loops and start to tow him towards my bedroom. His eyes widen, but he doesn’t resist.

 

“Is this real?” he asks at the threshold. “Are we really doing this?”

 

“So real,” I half laugh.

* * *

 

  
The stew goes to waste, and he doesn’t even see the decorations until the next morning. But I sing for him all night long.


End file.
